May 29, 2002

Hot-headed hockey fan earns penalty

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       Temperamentally speaking, I am usually the epitome of calm, cool and collected. Tonight, however, all that will go out the window - possibly with the TV remote.
      It is playoff hockey season at the Leiva household and I keep racking up the unhusbandlike penalties. One more "SHOOT THE PUCK SHANAHAN!" outburst and my wife might cross-check me into the coffee table. Unfortunately for her, I still wouldn't turn over the remote.
      Watching the Detroit Red Wings this time of year makes me tic - tremor, convulse and contort. Simply put, I'm a Wing nut. I start each game like David Banner, but after the puck drops something snaps and I turn into the incredible hullabaloo.
      With the Western Conference finals at 3-2 Colorado going into tonight's game, I'm sure to be in rare rabid fan form. My usual jovial Jekyll persona transformed into Hyde the breakables during every Colorado power play. Over the next three hours, I'll scream, swear and sweat profusely from the comfort of my living room. If the game goes into overtime, I'll stand inches from the screen, trying to will the puck past Patrick Roy.
      Being a fan is not easy on the vocal chords or the stomach lining. As sports columnist Mitch Albom succinctly said: "if after every game all you said was 'we'll see how it goes,' what fun would that be? You wouldn't be fans, or broadcasters, or journalists. You'd be ... players." Professional players don't panic this time of year, that is our job - the fans.
      Getting worked up about a game is something that comes by me naturally. Actually, I'm genetically predisposed to shout at the television set.
      During my youth, every NFL football season I sat at the feet of the master armchair quarterback - my father. No one was safe from his offensive verbal air attack. Coaches ran the wrong plays, tailbacks hit the wrong hole and referees were wrong all the time. It was dear old dad who taught me how to talk back to an inanimate tungsten filament box.
      Unlike my hairline, this is one genetic trait my wife wishes I didn't inherit.
      Truth be told, I think my spouse worries our child's first words will be "crap Chelios!" However, I ignore her chide comments, sometimes even during commercial breaks. Admittedly, I am the proverbial brick wall of conversation during a hockey game:
      - She: "So I'm thinking about shaving my head and riding out to New Mexico on a Vespa with Brad Pitt."
      - Me: "That's great dear ... God almighty pass the puck Fedorov!"
      Besides, I thought it was impolite to talk when your mind is full of slap shots and sprawling kick saves.
      My only saving grace thus far has been a willingness to forgo a few Saturday playoff games to spend time in a holier state of mind.
      With an 11-week-old baby and all her paraphernalia in tow, making an 11 a.m. Sunday Mass is nearly impossible, so we opt for Saturday evening. I must confess that my mind wandered as I wondered how the Wings were faring. I also found it hard to love thine enemies during a best of seven series.
      It kind of made me wish I was a parishioner at St. Dominic's (no, not Hasek) in Detroit. According to a Detroit Free Press article, Father Pat Casey, a die-hard Wings fan, arranged for a neighbor to hold up signs in the back of his church baring such urgent messages as: Red Wings 4, Avalanche 2 during Game 1. Although Father Casey says he has never prayed for a Wing's win, he figures it took some divine intervention for Darren McCarty to score a hat trick.
      Hopefully, it won't take a miracle on ice for the Red Wings to come back against Colorado. Perhaps when the puck drops on Game 6 tonight, instead of being my usual freaked-out fan self, I'll try remaining calm, cool and collected. However, intuition tells me I'm in for a long night in the penalty box for unhusbandlike conduct.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com